


Lure

by ProneToRelapse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither man expects the outcome of their vicious game. James expects capitulation. Sebastian just wants to live.</p>
<p>A retelling. With supernatural creatures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lure

A faint ticking sound clicks in the whitewashed halls, echoing staccato and rhythmic in the lab after hours. A clock on the wall counts down the seconds until the lock on the door will release with a pneumatic hiss and swing open. Time is the highest security. Reliable.

 

The clock buzzes once when the timer reaches zero, and the door's counterweight rises so that the door can be pushed open. From inside, Jim uncurls from his tightly balled position on the floor, and rises to unsteady feet. It takes him a few moments to gather his clothes and redress; shaking hands making difficult work. By the time he steps towards the door, his gait is firm and sure once more. He closes the door behind him. The hiss of the lock is deafening.

 

It's early when he leaves the building, so early that London is still blissfully sleeping. The sun feels hot on Jim's new skin, but the icy air is a salve he appreciates this morning. He scratches his wrist absently and refastens his watch around it. Tag Heuer. Gold plated. Leather strap. No silver. 

 

He heads to the riverbank and leans his forearms on the bars, looking out over the water that reflects the sun into his eyes. He closes them and lets his head dip forward, the reflection throwing dappled water shadows across his face. There's an ache deep in his new bones that won't be gone until tomorrow night at the earliest. It'll drain away and he'll be able to sleep and eat again. Right now, everything has been renewed. His sight, his smell, his taste, his touch, his hearing. All senses are renewed and heightened. The raw nature of it all has left Jim out of practice with humanity, and now he has to wait until he can assimilate once more.

 

He takes a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Sovereigns. Kingsize. The pack is crumpled and torn, flattened from his restless pacing last night. He'd tossed the jacket on the floor and obviously stepped on it at some point. The tab is dog-eared and torn, but its contents are less worse for wear for which Jim is grateful. He takes one and lights it, coughing violently when the nicotine hits the back of his throat. He doesn't have a smoker's lungs anymore. A few hours and he'll be alright, but for now, he's having his first cigarette of this lifetime. 

 

Sniffing, Jim rubs his nose with the pad of his thumb, eyes stinging as the wind picks up, blowing smoke back into his face. His hair is ruffled by the light breeze, spikes of black sticking up in a disarray. He hasn't the right state of mind to care about his appearance right now. Later he'll care. Later he'll be himself again. Later. Later.

 

Tossing the cigarette away, Jim taps an aimless song rhythm on the bars; possibly a Beatles song. He can't remember the words. And then he can and he murmurs 'remember to let her under your skin,' tapping the metal with his fingernails. Lighting another cigarette seems like the best idea, and Jim heads off down the embankment, hands in his pockets, collar turned up to stay the cold. 

 

The taste of the cigarette lies thick on his tongue and in his throat. He swallows around it, but that doesn't seem to help. He coughs a few times and leaves the cloying taste to its own devices, taking a drag on the new cigarette in spite of it. The smoke tendrils curl around his face as he exhales, new lungs protesting at the sensation his mind knows so well but his body does not.

 

"I'm new again," he sings, off key and quiet. "What song is that from?" There is no answer when he expects one. His head is unnervingly quiet, but it's a blissful rest from the usual near-unbearable noise. Later he'll hear it again. Later he won't be the only occupant of his mind. Later. Later.

 

It always happens when Jim is reborn. It's an old story now, though his body is new. He's twenty-six, has been for five years, and will be for the rest of his life. He noticed in the early months how his face would not change. Scars would not remain. Bruises would heal in seconds. In the early months, he took a hammer to his arm, broke his ulna, his radius, shattered his medial epicondyle. Two hours of agony later, his arm was perfectly healed, not even a bruise to mark as proof. Now every month, give or take the change of the year that adds an extra moon to the cycle, Jim is torn apart and reborn, his body renewed to the state it was before his life became chained to the moon.

 

There's a distinct separation of 'then' and 'now', for Jim. 'Then' was humanity, normalcy, and control. 'Now' is instability, instinct, and savagery. He'd like to say he's used to it, but honestly he's still so new to this life that it scares him more than he'd ever like to admit. He's a creature of order and schedule. As much as his psycopathy will allow him to be on those few good days.

 

Whether today is a good day or not is irrelevant. Jim is not human, and the only sanity he feels is when he's running with the mind of a wolf. He misses the wolf now as he trudges wearily into his immodest apartment: misses the feeling of wind and fur and claws and speed. He'll have to wait now, to feel it again. Old practices. 

 

The couch looks so much more inviting than his bed. Mainly because it's closer. Jim lets himself fall inelegantly over the arm, burying his face in the cushions and breathing in a dozen scents his mind is to clouded to identify. For now he just wants to sleep, and it comes easier than he expected. Within moments, he's gone.

 

Hours pass and he barely moves from the position he collapsed into, but he wakes with a start, fevered and shaking. He's soaked through his shirt and a sheen of sweat still covers his body. The flat is dark, and the clock on the wall tells him it's past eleven at night. He swallows thickly, hands trembling as he pushes himself upright. His skin itches and he staggers from the sofa towards the bathroom. He wants icy water on his skin and sheds his clothes desperately, tripping in his hurry.

 

Jim grabs the shower dial and switches round to cold, clambering into the shower and panting heavily. The blast of chilled water to his face and shoulders makes him cry out in shock, but he needs it. He's too hot, his blood is boiling. He curls up on the floor of the shower and the noise that rumbles low in his chest is no more than a growl as the water washes away the sweat and heat from his body.

 

Only when he starts to shiver, nearly biting off his tongue with the force of his chattering teeth, does he drag himself out of the shower, cocooning himself in a plush towel and rubbing vigorously at sensitive skin. Vasoconstriction has taken the blood away from the surface of his skin, rendering him paler than his usual almost unhealthy hue. A wave of gut-turning nausea washes over him and he stumbles, dizzy and weak, into the kitchen. 

Jim is never unprepared. And this is all old practices to him now. In the fridge he finds a slab of raw steak wrapped in tin foil, tucked away in the coldest part, and he grabs for it eagerly, ripping away at the foil and tearing a chunk off with his teeth. Blood dribbles down his chin as he wolfs down - quite literally - the entire twelve ounce steak in a matter of seconds, groaning and growling in almost obscene pleasure. His stomach snarls loudly and he gulps down the last few mouthfuls, returning to the fridge for another foil-wrapped parcel. There are six in the fridge to begin with. There are none when he finally leaves the kitchen.

 

And so Jim returns to himself, slowly, surely, and with a full stomach. He lights himself a cigarette, and settles down at the dining room table with his laptop, ready to work. He picks out a piece of gristle from between his teeth with the nail of his little finger as he types his password into the laptop with his other hand. The desktop background is of three grey wolves howling at the moon; an inside joke that only Jim enjoys with himself. He opens up several files and his email account, finally switching on his phone after his twenty-four hour sojourn from humanity. Notification after notification flashes up on his screen, and once the handheld stops buzzing, he has thirty-four emails and sixteen missed calls. Urgent stuff.

 

He works through the emails steadily, occasionally stopping to make himself a cup of coffee, smoke a cigarette, and rub his temples to soothe his mind. The noise has picked up again, and it's starting to cramp his muscles. Still he works, and opens two of his bank accounts online, smiling gleefully as the numbers increase by the second. It's a thankful job, and he is very grateful. 

 

And then. Something catches Jim's eye. It's not the money in his account or the chance to cleverly end someone's life. It's a name. A simple name tucked in to an email concerning recent events in the British Army. There was a mass murder of several commanding officers, all of them found with their throats ripped out and the culprit sitting among their corpses, blood staining his mouth and uniform, calmly smoking a cigarette. He was to stand trial in three days time, and had pleaded guilty with a smile and a shrug.

 

Attached to the email, Jim found a photo of the culprit and some relevant files that were very  interesting indeed. The dear culprit was a Colonel, an expert marksman, currently holding the title for the longest kill shot in history. The murders were attributed to some sort of psychotic break, as the files detailed the man suffered from a long-undiagnosed cyclothymic disorder.

 

Devouring the files' contents with delight, Jim knew at once what needed to be done. He grabbed his phone and dialled the number of his chauffeur, demanding to be collected at six am the following morning, and driven to the Glasshouse.


End file.
